Stop Blaming Your Past

Friedrich Nietzsche once said that he could only believe in a God who knows how to dance. Believing in a melancholic God is merely the symptom of a sick mind. There is truth to this. You mold your God in your own image. If you are sad, your God will be sad. If you are joyous, your God will be joyous. If you can dance, then your God too will be able to dance. However you are, that is how existence appears to you. The scope of your vision is your creation. And until you can put your faith in a dancing God, know that you haven't truly healed. The concept of a sad, weeping, and ailing God reflects your own unhealthy state.

Today's first sutra is: "The soul is a dancer." Understand a few more things about dancing. Dance is the sole act where the actor and the action truly become one. If someone paints, the painter and the painting become separate. If someone composes a poem, the poet and the poem remain apart. If someone sculpts, the sculptor and the sculpture become separate. Only dance is the one act where the dancer and the dance are one. They cannot be separated from each other. If the dancer leaves, the dance disappears; and if the dance is lost, calling that person a dancer makes no sense anymore. They were completely unified.

Therefore, calling God a dancer is meaningful. This universe is not separate from Him. It is His dance, not just His creation. It is not a sculpted statue that God fashioned and then walked away from. God is present within it at every single moment. If He steps away, the dance will cease. And remember, if the dance ceases, God too will vanish. He cannot survive it. In every flower, every leaf, every atom, He is manifesting. Creation didn't just end in the distant past. It is happening right now. The act of creation is ongoing. That is why everything is fresh. God is dancing, both outside and inside.

"The soul is a dancer." This means whatever you have done, are doing, or will do, is not separate from you. It is your own play. If you are suffering, it is your own choice. If you are blissful, that too is your choice. No one else is responsible.

When I was a college professor, newly appointed there, the college was far from the village, so all the professors would bring their lunch and gather around a single table at noon. Coincidentally, the colleague I sat next to opened his lunchbox, peeked inside, and complained, "Potato curry and flatbread again!" I figured he probably didn't like potato curry and flatbread, but being new, I didn't say anything. The next day, he opened his box again and groaned, "Potato curry and flatbread again!" So I told him, "If you don't like potato curry and flatbread, tell your wife to cook something else." He replied, "What wife? I cook my own meals!"

This is precisely your life. There is no one else. If you laugh, it's you laughing; if you cry, it's you crying. No one else is to blame. It is possible that crying for so long has turned it into a habit, and you have simply forgotten how to laugh. It's also possible you've cried so much that you don't know how to do anything else. Or perhaps you have completely forgotten— you've been weeping for so many lifetimes that you don't even remember choosing to cry in the first place. But your forgetfulness doesn't turn the truth into a lie. You chose it yourself. You are the master. And therefore, the moment you decide, the weeping will stop.

Being filled with the realization that I am the master, that I am the creator, and whatever I do, I alone am responsible for it— that triggers a revolution in life. As long as you hold others responsible, revolution is impossible, because you will remain dependent on them. If you think others are making you miserable, how can you ever become happy? It's impossible. Because changing others is not in your control. You only have the power to change yourself. If you believe you are suffering due to fate, then the matter is completely out of your hands. How can you change fate? Fate is above you. And if you think destiny's scribe has already predetermined everything, you become a helpless machine; you lose your free will. The very meaning of the soul is that you are free. And no matter how much agony you endure, it is the outcome of your own choices. The day you change your decision, your life will transform. Ultimately, everything depends on your perspective on life.

I was a guest at Mullah Nasruddin's house. While walking in the garden one morning, I happened to glance over. I saw his wife hurl a teacup straight at Nasruddin's head. It missed his head, smashed into the wall, and shattered to pieces. Nasruddin noticed that I had witnessed this, so he came out and said, "Please excuse us, don't get the wrong idea. We are very happily married. My wife occasionally throws things like this, but it makes no difference to our happiness." I was a bit perplexed and asked him to explain further. He said, "If her aim is accurate, she is happy; and if she misses, I am happy. Either way, our mutual happiness remains undisturbed." "Sometimes she hits the mark, sometimes she misses. We are both content."

Everything depends on how you choose to look at life. You create it, then you perceive it, and then you interpret it. You are entirely alone. No one else ever enters your internal world. They cannot even enter. If anyone does enter, it is only because you permitted them. This brings a dilemma, which is why you suppress it. The dilemma is that once you realize you are solely responsible, you can no longer be miserable. And if you still choose misery, you can no longer complain about it. There is great pleasure in both. Being unhappy carries its own perverse thrill, because when you are miserable, you play the martyr. And martyrdom is quite addictive. When you are miserable, you seek sympathy. And sympathy is very gratifying. That's why people constantly exaggerate their tales of woe to one another. Why do people narrate their sadness so endlessly when nobody even wants to hear it? What joy could they possibly find in your sorrow? Hearing sad stories only makes the listener depressed. It certainly doesn't make flowers bloom in their life. Yet you keep venting, and the other person only listens in the hope that you will listen to them next—otherwise, they'd leave. You consider people boring only when they don't give you a chance to talk. It's an unspoken pact: you bore me, and I'll bore you. You dump your sad stories on me, and I'll dump mine on you, keeping us even.

Why do people dwell on misery so much? What is the motive? They crave sympathy. Talk about sorrow, and someone will console you, pat your back, and say, "You've suffered so much." You are begging for love through your suffering. That is why you are deeply invested in your sorrow. You have poured your emotional capital into it. Whenever you are down, you get a glimmer of hope from everyone around. People seem to offer their support and show you sympathy. You haven't found true love in life, so now... Sympathy is garbage. Yet, it is the closest substitute for love. Those who never find real gold end up settling for the counterfeit. Sympathy is fake love. The longing was for love, but love must be earned. Because love only comes to those who can give it. Love is the reward of giving. You are incapable of giving; you only demand. You are a beggar, not an emperor. And when begging, the more wretched you look, the easier it gets. Look at a street beggar— he puts on a fake display of misery on his body. That suffering isn't real. Those wounds are painted on. But when someone seems utterly engulfed in sorrow, it becomes hard for you to say no. You feel guilty. Your ego is pricked: "How can I refuse such a miserable person?" If he were healthy and robust, you'd tell him, "You're able-bodied, go work!" "Go earn a living, you can do it." But looking at a miserable person, you stay silent. You feel compelled to offer sympathy, even if it's insincere. That is why you cling to pain—because you haven't received love. Anyone who has found love becomes blissful; they hold onto joy, not misery. Misery is not worth holding onto.

Moreover, complaining feels very convenient to you. Because whenever you claim that others make you miserable, the burden of responsibility is lifted off you. But when I tell you—and all the scriptures tell you, and all the awakened ones have said— that you alone are responsible, no one else— then it feels like a massive burden. The biggest burden of all is realizing that you can no longer cast the blame onto anyone else. And an even heavier realization hits you: who will you beg for sympathy from, if you alone are responsible? On a deeper level, the terrifying problem arises: if you are responsible, it means change is entirely possible. And bringing about change requires a revolution— passing through the crucible of transformation. All your old, ingrained habits must be shattered. Your entire old framework is fundamentally wrong. The house you've built for yourself so far is a total, absolute hell. Yet, you built it yourself. No matter how grand you made it, it will have to be demolished entirely. All the effort of your past suddenly seems to have gone to utter waste. That is why you try to evade this truth. But the more you dodge it, the more you will wander lost.

First, understand clearly: you are the center of your own existence; no one else is to blame. And no matter how heavy it feels, the fact remains: you are responsible. If you accept this truth, all your suffering will quickly disappear. Because once it becomes crystal clear that I alone am orchestrating my own misery, how long does it take to dismantle it? No one is holding you back. If you still want to indulge in suffering, that's your prerogative. But then, you have zero right to complain. If you wish to wander endlessly in this world, enjoy it! If you genuinely prefer going to hell, that is your choice—just don't play the victim. There is no reason to complain. Simply live in your sorrow happily!

These sutras are profoundly precious in this regard. The first sutra: "The soul is a dancer." Your actions and your very being are not separate. Your deeds stem directly from your own essence, just as a dance emanates from the dancer. Now, if the dancer starts screaming, "I am tormented by this dance! I don't want to do it anymore," what would you say to him? You'd say, "Then stop!" "Stand still." "Who is forcing you to dance?" "You are doing the dancing." "Just stop, if it feels pointless and brings you neither joy nor love. If it only brings you sorrow, pause. Stand still, and the dance will vanish." "The soul is a dancer" means that whatever you do is authored by you alone; it springs from you naturally, the way leaves sprout from a tree. In the exact same way, your actions manifest from your very being. Stop, and the actions will dissolve.

A second point is vital to understand: "The soul is a dancer." If you halt this dance of sorrow, this life filled with gloom and torment, the dancing itself won't end; it will simply change its form. The form will transform. Because the dance cannot be stopped. It is an intrinsic part of life. It is your very nature. You will continue to dance, but instead of tears, there will be smiles. Then, your dance will carry a melody, a rhythm, an ecstasy, a wild euphoria, a sheer intoxication. Right now, your dance is hellish; then, it will become divine.

There was a Sufi mystic named Ibrahim. Once a great emperor, he renounced it all to become a mystic. He traveled to India, and questioned a local ascetic, because the man looked utterly dejected. Ascetics often look melancholic because the flavor of their life was in their household; they know no other kind of joy. When they abandon family life, all its zest disappears completely. It might not be acute suffering, but it is a profound dullness. There is a subtle difference between sadness and depression. In sorrow, there is an active fire; a sharp, stinging intensity. Sorrow carries a tempestuous passion. Sorrow has its own tidal wave. There are two kinds of tidal waves: the flood of sorrow, and the flood of joy. One happens when you are so overwhelmed by sadness that tears begin to flow. The other, when you are so overwhelmed by happiness that tears begin to flow. Both are floods.

When someone flees from the world because they think it only holds pain, they also leave behind its pleasures. Then, they fall into a flat void. No wave comes—neither of joy nor of sorrow. Go look at your monks and your traditional hermits. They are walking corpses; dead while still breathing. Their inner dance has ground to a halt. They ran away from misery, but forfeited pleasure in the bargain, because both existed together. They delusionally hoped that by escaping pain, only unadulterated happiness would remain. That was their mistake. The world contains both agony and ecstasy. If you try to hoard the ecstasy while discarding the agony, running from one inevitably strips you of the other as well.

That hermit looked gloomy. He must have been an ordinary monk. Because a true seeker drops both pleasure and pain together. He doesn't try to salvage the pleasure. He transcends both. And the moment he transcends both pleasure and pain, the dull gloom disappears. Because gloom is simply the midpoint between the two. When you let go of both poles, the midpoint vanishes too. And that triggers a journey into an entirely new dimension—one called bliss, peace, Nirvana, or whatever label we choose to apply. True bliss is not a tidal wave. Bliss is a cool moonbeam; a soothing light. It carries no storm. In a sense, bliss resembles that still neutrality, yet gloom sits between pleasure and pain, whereas bliss sits far beyond them both. Gloom is a state of dark stagnation, where everything becomes inert like death; where everything succumbs to lethargy. Bliss, on the other hand, is a state of pure, lucid awareness. Yet it holds neither pleasure nor pain. In this specific way, bliss mimics neutrality: it contains no highs and no lows. It is full of light, but not the blazing, feverish light of pleasure, which carries a scorching heat that leaves you sweating and exhausted. That is why pleasure tires people out. You cannot stay in a state of high pleasure for too long. Because pleasure drains you. It contains an anxious rush, an over-stimulation, a feverish pitch. If you started winning the lottery every single day, it would kill you. You wouldn't survive it. It's fine if it happens once in a blue moon, but if it happened daily, the mounting tension would make it impossible to sleep. Your heart would hammer so violently you'd never find rest. The sheer, unyielding rush of excitement would prove fatal. Therefore, worldly pleasure can only be ingested in homeopathic doses. An allopathic dose of it would destroy you. It is doled out in tiny, sparse packets: vast oceans of pain, sprinkled with a tiny drop of joy. Pure, unstopped pleasure is unbearable because it creates a high-voltage friction and a scorching heat. Suffering, too, is tension... Pleasure too is tension. Both involve excitement. Bliss is the state of an unexcited mind. There, there is light, but no heat. There is dance, but no feverish rush. It is a silent, peaceful dance where no sound is made. It is a dance in the void, which brings no fatigue. It does not belong to the body. Both pleasure and pain belong to the body. What belongs to the soul is bliss. That is an entirely different dance.

That monk was an ordinary one, the kind you can find everywhere. When Ibrahim saw the monk looking sad, he was surprised. Because Ibrahim believed that a monk should be blissful. So he asked, "What is the true sign of a monk?" Ibrahim asked the monk, "What defines a holy man?" The monk replied, "If I get food, I accept it. And if I don't, I remain content." Ibrahim said, "That is the trait of a dog! What makes that holy? A dog does the exact same thing: eats when fed, stays content when not." The monk, taken aback, asked, "Then how do you define a holy man?" Ibrahim replied, "If he gets food, he shares it; and if he gets nothing, he dances in gratitude to God, saying, 'Thank you for granting me a chance to fast.'" That is the definition of a seeker: if he receives, he shares. Whoever shares whatever they get is a true seeker. One who hoards and clings to it is a householder; saving makes you a householder, sharing makes you a seeker. Whether it's bliss, wisdom, or anything else—even meditation—whatever you attain, give it away. Because the funny thing about worldly possessions is: if you share them, they diminish. They get depleted. That is why people hoard them. If you distribute your safe's wealth, the safe won't stay full for very long. Because everything in this world is limited. Once shared, it is gone. Therefore, in the material world, you have to hoard the finite. But there is no need to bring this habit into the realm of the soul. There, all wealth is infinite. The more you share, the more it grows. The more you pour out, the more fresh abundance rushes in. It is an endless ocean. Ibrahim is right: if you receive, share it. Do not feast alone. Share it. And if you receive nothing, dance in gratitude. Mere contentment is not enough, because contentment harbors gloom. People often say, "The contented man is always happy." That is entirely incorrect. A contented person is not truly happy. He merely convinces himself he's happy. Deep down, he is miserable. But he feels powerless to change it. He is helpless, which is why he borrows contentment as a shield. He is not truly content. Contentment is just a sub-species of gloom. You simply endure; you make no noise, you raise no complaints. That is the hallmark of a deadened mind. Ibrahim said: if you get nothing, dance in gratitude to God for giving you an opportunity to practice austerity: "Today, we feast on a fast!" Grateful when given, because you get to share and spread it around; grateful when denied, because your peace remains intact. A true seeker's bliss cannot be destroyed. Whereas even if your misery is stripped away, the best you'll achieve is a hollow gloom. If you somehow manage to drop your sorrow, you just turn melancholic. Misery at least keeps you engaged. It keeps you occupied. Have you ever considered that if all your troubles were suddenly snatched away, you would commit suicide? Because what else would you do with yourself? There would be nothing left to do. A father slaves away at work because he has to educate his sons and get them married. If they all got married and settled right this second, what would the father do? His life would instantly feel meaningless. Through pointless anxieties, you are handed an occupation. It fools you into thinking you are doing something valuable, that you are important and indispensable. That the world would collapse without you: "What will become of my son? What will happen to my wife?" This props up your ego, feeding the illusion that you are irreplaceable; that the whole show rests entirely on your shoulders. Even though everything will spin along just fine without you. It worked before you arrived, and it will work long after you leave. But for a fleeting moment in between, you treat yourself to the grand daydream of your own cosmic significance. So, at best, if you renounce your misery, you achieve resignation. But inside that resignation, pain still lurks. Contentment is just the skin; beneath it sits the bleeding wound of sorrow. It is merely a Band-Aid, not a cure. A true seeker is never just "content." A true seeker is ecstatic. Regardless of the circumstance— if he gets, he rejoices in sharing; and if he gets nothing, he dances in the sheer joy of empty hands.

The very nature of the soul is to dance. And the soul can dance in one of two ways. It can dance so clumsily that it weaves a dark web of sorrow, spreading gloom and despair in every direction, casting shadows all around. Or, the soul can dance with such grace that radiant sunbeams ripple outward, making flowers bloom wherever it steps. Sannyas (Renunciation) is the dance of bliss; worldly attachment is the dance of pain. Hell is not some geographical place. Do not sit around foolishly believing that hell exists in the afterlife. Hell is simply your own clumsy, out-of-rhythm dancing, which generates suffering. Heaven, too, isn't somewhere else. Heaven is your harmonious, graceful way of dancing, which instantly turns wherever you stand into paradise. Heaven is an intrinsic quality of your dance; hell is an intrinsic quality of your dance.

You don't know how to dance, yet you constantly blame the uneven floor. You insist that's why you keep stumbling. The floor isn't crooked at all! For someone who knows how to dance, even a warped floor works beautifully. It makes no difference. Whereas for someone with two left feet, even a perfectly leveled stage built to precise 90-degree angles won't magically give them rhythm. I heard a story once: a man went in for eye surgery. Before the operation, he told the doctor, "I am completely blind. Will I be able to see clearly once this is done?" The doctor promised him without a doubt, "Absolutely." The man then asked, "Will I be able to read, too?" The doctor replied, "Of course!" The surgery succeeded, and his vision was restored. He could see everything perfectly. Yet, furious, he marched into the doctor's clinic one day and shouted, "You lied to me!" "I still can't read a single word!" The doctor, puzzled, said, "Your eyes work fine now. Why can't you read?" The man snapped, "Because I never learned the alphabet in the first place!" Having healthy eyes doesn't automatically grant you the skill of literacy. No matter how even the stage is, if you don't know how to dance, a smooth floor won't save you. Dancing doesn't depend on the stage; it is a skill you must learn. And remember: there is no outside teacher to drill it into you. You are entirely on your own. Enlightened masters can point the way, but the actual footwork is up to you alone. Nobody can hold your hand and step through it for you. The dance of life happens so deep within your own interiority that external hands cannot possibly reach it. Nobody is granted entry into that sanctuary except you. In there, you are absolutely alone. Everything else sits outside the door.

"The soul is a dancer." It can dance the rhythm of joy, or the rhythm of sorrow. If you are miserable, it simply means you've picked up bad habits on the dance floor. Change your form! Stop pointing fingers at others. Drop the complaints. As long as you play the whining victim, you will continue to stumble and fall. Because it will never dawn on you that the error is yours. It's always "someone else's fault." Cease the complaining. Turn your gaze inward, and wherever you find pain sprouting up, investigate it closely: you will find the root causes sitting inside you. Abandon those causes! Why keep watering the very roots that bear toxic fruit? What possible motive is there to keep sowing seeds that yield pure poison? Why do you insist on planting them, season after season, only to reap a harvest of agony? It would be infinitely better to sow nothing at all. Let the field lie fallow. Leaving the soil bare isn't a bad thing. In fact, it is wise to let it rest barren for a while, so that all the old, dormant seeds burn out. Only then can you sow fresh, living seeds. Why are you so terrified of this inner emptiness? Meditation is precisely that fallow, in-between state. Just as a wise farmer leaves his land uncultivated for a season or two, planting nothing at all— meditation is that exact middle ground. Sitting squarely between the old seeds of hell and the new seeds of heaven. It is an empty space. Leave it for a few days, sow nothing at all. Remember one thing: doing nothing is far better than doing something wrong. Just pause for a while; do nothing. Until you learn how to do it right, it is better to do nothing. Because every wrong action creates a chain reaction of wrong actions. That is precisely what we call the karmic web. Yet, you just keep doing something or the other. You simply cannot sit idle. You insist on keeping busy. Sitting entirely idle is meditation—it allows old habits to drop away. And in that stillness, you begin to see clearly. Right now, you are so deeply preoccupied that you lack the leisure and mental space to reflect. You have no time. The sole essence of meditation is to sit quietly for an hour, two, or three— however much time you can manage. Just sit idle. Do nothing at all. Simply watch. So that gradually, your vision becomes sharp and deep, and you begin to realize that whatever happened in your life, you alone were the cause of it. Once this realization dawns, sowing useless seeds will stop. Only then does a meaningful action arise. True religion is supreme bliss. It is not the gloom of renunciation. It is the ultimate enjoyment of existence. It is partaking in the grand cosmic feast. It is merging as one with the dance of existence. Never make the mistake of viewing religion in terms of sacrifice and gloom. Any religion based on sacrifice and sadness is entirely false. True religion is always full of bliss. True religion is an ever-playing flute.

"The soul is a dancer." Your inner consciousness is the stage. And this dance isn't taking place outside anywhere. It is happening entirely within you. It unfolds within. This external world is not the stage. Your inner consciousness alone is the stage. No matter how much you imagine stepping outside, no one can actually leave. How could you step outside? You remain trapped within yourself, where the whole play unfolds. Everything happens inside. It's only the aftereffects that appear on the outside. Just as when you go to a movie theater, the entire show appears on the silver screen. Yet the actual movie is running inside the projector behind your back. The screen merely reflects it. The screen is not the true stage. It's just a projection. But your eyes remain glued to the screen. Fixated on the illusion. And you completely forget—you fail to realize that the real action is happening behind you. The entire mechanical web of the film runs in the back. What's on the screen is merely its reflection. Your consciousness is the stage. The projector is inside. All the seeds of this drama originate from within. Outside, you only hear the faint echoes. You only catch the reverberations. And if there is suffering outside, know that you're running the wrong film inside your mind. And whatever you attempt outside goes wrong. This simply means that whatever you project from within is fundamentally flawed. Scrubbing the screen won't change a thing. No matter how much you polish the screen, it makes zero difference. If the film feeding it from inside is toxic, the screen will simply keep repeating that exact same nightmare. It will replay endlessly. And not only are you a film, but you act like a broken record, stuck repeating the exact same line on an endless loop. An infinite loop of repetition. If you ever closely examine the workings of your own brain, you will find the same old thoughts racing around. Like a broken record, you just keep echoing the same repetitive chatter. Nothing original or fresh ever happens in there. And whatever you mentally loop in there, its reverberations echo all around you. It is projected outward onto the canvas of the world in every direction.

One day, Mullah Nasruddin went to watch a movie. He took his wife and his young child along. Now, Nasruddin's child could hardly be well-behaved. Because when everything inside is chaotic, the outside naturally turns chaotic too. So the kid was crying, screaming, and throwing a massive tantrum. The theater manager had to walk over at least seven times, saying, "Look, take your money back and please leave, or keep this kid quiet!" But why would the kid stay quiet? The manager had to keep walking over again and again. Nasruddin heard him out, but sat silently watching the movie. When the film was just about to end, he leaned over to his wife and asked, "What do you think— is the movie any good?" His wife snapped, "It's complete rubbish!" So he said, "Then don't waste time—pinch the boy as hard as you can," "so we can get our refund and go home!"

You have been watching this for a very long time. Watching it across multiple lifetimes. It is all rubbish. When will you pinch yourself? You have to do it yourself. There is no one else to do it. When will you wake up and turn back? What is the point of watching this rubbish show that only fills you with torment, dragging you down with pain and heavy burdens? It yields nothing but misery and painful nightmares. You can step right out of this theater of illusions. You are staying inside this house solely by your own choice. Why are you delaying your exit? Have you not had enough of it yet? If you honestly haven't had your fill, why bother wasting time on the teachings of Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, Shiva, or Jesus? If your appetite for worldly drama isn't sated, do not listen to them. Stay far away from their words; avoid them entirely. Because their teachings hold value only for those who are thoroughly exhausted by the show, who have watched enough of the film and are utterly bored with it. Those who are tormented by hell and now yearn for a heavenly dance; those whose deep, burning aspiration is reserved for the Divine. But your mental state is such that you try to keep your feet in two different boats simultaneously. And that only compounds your suffering tenfold. You want to indulge in this worldly life, no matter how agonizing it gets, because you cling to the fragile hope that happiness is just around the corner. Within arms' reach. Hope keeps you anchored to the illusion. Even though your own lived experience warns you that it will never happen—because you've held onto this exact hope countless times, and failed every time. Lived experience sides with the awakened ones; blind hope opposes them. Yet you are torn between both. So you keep one foot planted squarely in the boat of hope, whispering to yourself, "Maybe just a little while longer." "If this woman didn't bring me joy, maybe the next one will. If this son disappointed me, maybe the other will make up for it. If this business venture failed, maybe the next one will strike gold." "It will surely work out." You constantly rearrange the furniture of your life: "If this house feels empty, maybe a new home will bring contentment." "This safe is too small; a bigger one will definitely satisfy me." You keep tampering with your external props, constantly changing the screen. But all the while, the exact same internal script keeps getting projected onto that canvas. Everywhere you go, you encounter sorrow. Your experience is of suffering, yet your hope is of pleasure—trapped in two boats.

When you listen to Buddha, Mahavira, or Krishna, they speak the plain truth of experience. They urge you: step out of the boat of blind hope and board the vessel of truth. And you do listen to them, because you cannot deny their profound radiance. Looking at them inspires trust within you; you realize that whatever peace eluded us, they seem to have attained, because their restless running has ceased. Yet, your trust in them remains half-hearted. Because a nagging doubt whispers: "What if they're faking it?" "Who knows? Maybe they found nothing and are just boasting." "What if they failed to achieve it, but we actually might?" "Maybe they're just crying sour grapes! Perhaps they couldn't reach the grapes, but we might succeed where they failed." So your stubborn hope refuses to die. Yet you can't entirely dismiss your painful past either. Thus, you live in perpetual conflict. And this conflict is the root of your neurosis. These two boats are heading in completely opposite directions. Commit entirely to one vessel! There is no rush. If you want, jump whole-heartedly into the boat of the world. You will soon get thoroughly disillusioned with it. But keeping one tentative foot planted in the boat of the masters prevents you from experiencing the material world to its fullest. Even there, you remain half-hearted, because the words of the awakened ones keep tugging at your leg, holding you back. Anchoring your guilt. So you try to manage both the temple and the shop. Inevitably, both fall apart. You cannot run both simultaneously; they are fundamentally incompatible. Throw yourself entirely into your shop! Completely forget that Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, or Shiva ever existed. Forget that scriptures were ever written. Forget it all. Convince yourself your ledger is everything. Once you immerse yourself in it completely, you will snap right out of the illusion. Your own lived experience will reveal to you that it was all utterly pointless. But you can't even do that. And you fail to fully board the boat of the masters, because your mind keeps telling you, "Don't rush just yet. There's plenty of time. After all, how old are you? This is stuff for old age. When you're on your deathbed, with one foot in the grave, put your other foot in the Buddha's boat. What's the hurry?" And so, people think religion is only for old age. When they are just about to die, that's when they suddenly need holy Ganges water. When they're breathing their last, someone should whisper the Namokar Mantra into their ears. At the very moment of death, when everything is lost and no energy remains, no strength left for the journey—that's when you finally prepare to set sail! No. You will fall right back into the world, back into the same boat. You've done this countless times.

"The soul is a dancer, the inner consciousness is the stage." Remember, whatever you see outside is merely a projection from within you. You projected it. You only see in life what you yourself pour into it. And you come across many such instances in life. I heard a story: inside a roadside inn, three travelers met. One was an old man of sixty. One was a middle-aged man around forty-five. And the third was a young man of thirty. The three struck up a conversation. The young man boasted, "Last night, I was with a woman so magnificent, no more beautiful woman could exist anywhere in the world." "And the pleasure I experienced was indescribable!" The forty-five-year-old said, "Cut the nonsense. I've seen plenty of women." "All those so-called indescribable pleasures aren't indescribable at all. They aren't even real joy." "Real joy is what I experienced last night." "I was invited to a royal banquet." "Such exquisite, delicious food—" "I have never tasted anything like it in my life!" The old man scoffed, "That's rubbish too." "Let me tell you what real joy is. This morning, I had such a wonderful bowel movement! My stomach felt so clear. Pure, indescribable bliss!"

In truth, all worldly pleasures are just like this. They change with age, but you simply forget. At thirty, sexual lust seems like the ultimate source of joy. By forty-five, rich food becomes far more appealing. That's why around forty or forty-five, people start gaining weight. By sixty, food loses all its charm. All you care about is a clear bowel movement. That brings you the ecstasy of enlightenment! All three men are correct, because worldly pleasures are precisely like this. And to chase these fleeting thrills, we waste lifetimes. And even when attained, you gain nothing at all. What could you possibly gain?

Your inner consciousness is the stage. You only see outside what you project from within. Lust radiates from the young man's eyes. His entire body is fueled by the chemistry of lust. Wherever he looks, he only sees women. It dominates his vision. Everywhere he turns, sexual desire takes hold of him. When Mullah Nasruddin was a young man, he went with his wife to an art gallery exhibition. They were newly married, and eager to go sightseeing everywhere. The gallery featured very expensive paintings. Nasruddin stopped in front of one painting and stood there for a long time. He completely forgot his wife was standing right there. It was a painting of a beautiful nude woman, her modesty barely covered by a few strategically placed leaves. The painting was titled "Spring." He stood there, completely spellbound. Finally, his wife yanked his arm and snapped, "What are you waiting for? Autumn?"

That is precisely how the human mind works. His wife nailed it. Wives usually possess very accurate intuition. Whatever impulse is surging inside you transforms into the world around you. You color it yourself. In Hindi, we have a deeply precious word. It is hard to find its exact equivalent in any other language: Raag. Raag means attachment, but it also means color. All your worldly attachments are simply the colors projected from your own eyes. You color things yourself. Whatever you splash your emotional color onto becomes your attachment. Raag literally means you have colored it. A woman isn't objectively beautiful. The color of lust sits inside your own mind, making her appear magnificent to you. A young child couldn't care less; his color of lust hasn't ripened yet. An old man's color has faded away. He laughs at your foolishness, even though he committed the exact same follies himself. You too will laugh at your foolishness one day. At your foolishness. But whoever recognizes their folly while committing it truly wakes up. Once the color of foolishness fades naturally with age, laughing at it is meaningless. Anyone can laugh in hindsight. But waking up while still gripped by the intoxicating passion of folly, realizing that the external show is merely an internal projection—that is true awakening. Outside, there is nothing. Just a blank screen. Consciousness is the stage and the projector. And from there alone, we broadcast this entire illusion.

"Mastering the intellect leads to ultimate truth." That is the secret. And this ongoing drama will continue to trap you in endless wandering, as long as your intellect remains untamed. "Mastering the intellect leads to ultimate truth." As soon as you remember that the entire show stems from within, you will stop trying to conquer the external world. It has never been conquered by anyone. Never. There is nothing out there. Only a blank screen. Simply master your own intellect, and the entire universe instantly comes under your command. The moment you realize that you alone are the creator of the show you are watching— that you are the actor, the scriptwriter, the stage, and everything in between— you stop obsessing over changing external props. Instead, you turn your focus inward to reclaim your rightful inner sovereignty. That is mastery over the intellect.

Right now, you are not master of your own mind. Your thoughts are not your servants; you are the slave of your thoughts. You go wherever they drag you. They refuse to go where you want to direct them. They disobey. Just try to divert even the tiniest thought— it flatly refuses. Command a simple thought to quiet down, and it instantly stages a full-blown rebellion. You never pay attention to this internal chaos, because it is far too painful to admit, "I am not even master of myself." Yet you spend your life trying to conquer the world! If you cannot even master your own mind, how could you possibly master anything or anyone else? Observe your mind closely. Inspect its workings. The very first thing you'll realize is that the mind has taken over as master. Not your soul; not you. The mind commands, "Do this," and you obey. If you resist, it creates endless inner turmoil. If you disobey, the mind turns sulky, and its gloom becomes your gloom. If you obey, you get nowhere, because the mind is utterly blind. Where could its guidance possibly lead you? The mind is a state of stupor and unconsciousness. Following its advice will lead you to absolute dead ends. You've heard the proverb: "If the blind lead the blind, both fall into the ditch." Yet this is precisely what everyone is doing. Your mind is completely blind; it knows nothing at all. And yet, you follow it blindly. Just as a shadow follows your physical body, you trail behind your mind. You have completely forgotten that you are the master. When you live in close quarters with slaves for too long, this often happens: the slaves gradually usurp the throne. Because the more dependent you become on them, the more their authority solidifies. It becomes absolute. The entire goal of spiritual practice boils down to one single objective: shattering the mind's false sovereignty.

How do you break the mind's grip? The very first step to breaking its rule is to sever your identification with it. A thought arises in your mind— just a thought. Do not attach yourself to it. Do not identify with it as your own. It derives its strength only when you identify with it. Stand far away. Keep watching as if people are walking on the road. You are standing on the side, just watching. Keep watching as if clouds are drifting in the sky, while you stand far down on the earth, watching. Do not connect yourself to the thought; do not say, "This is my thought." The moment you call it "mine," you become attached. Once attached, your energy flows into the thought, and that very energy enslaves you. Yet, that energy belongs to you. Do not get attached. As you step back, detach, and separate yourself, the thought becomes lifeless. It becomes completely powerless. It no longer receives energy. Your problem is that you wish to put out the flame of the lamp, yet you keep pouring the oil yourself. You blow on the flame, while pouring more oil. Stop pouring the oil. That is the first step. The old oil won't burn for long. First, stop adding oil. What is this oil? Whenever a thought grips you—if anger grips you, you instantly become one with that anger. You say, "I have become angry." The reality is that you identified so deeply with the anger that all your energy is feeding it. You became the shadow, and it became the master. When anger arises, stand back and observe it. Let the anger rise. Let it spread through the body like smoke; it will surround you from all sides, let it. Just remember one crucial thing: "I am not this anger," and do not be in a rush to act upon it, because once translated into action, turning back is difficult. Just watch the anger and make one firm resolve: that whoever provoked this anger, insulted you, or abused you—if you must answer them, you will do so only after the anger has passed. Do not respond before that. It will be hard at first, because it demands immense awareness. But gradually, it becomes effortless. Keep your mouth shut. You will only respond once the anger has quieted down. And this is right, because a response is only appropriate in a moment of calm. How could a response be appropriate in a fit of rage? That would be like someone responding while heavily intoxicated.

If lust grips the mind, stand back and observe it. Create a distance. Between you and the thought— the greater the distance between the two of you, the more space, the wider the gap becomes, the more your self-mastery will begin to assert itself. You are standing so pressed against it that you have forgotten there is space between you. Start practicing this from today. The results won't come instantly, because this closeness spans across lifetimes. It cannot be broken in a single day. Breaking such deep-rooted ties will take time. But if you make even a slight effort, it will snap, because the bond is an illusion. If it were real, it wouldn't break. It is merely a false notion. Just an idea that "I am one with it." The very idea of becoming one creates all the trouble.

When hunger strikes, do not say, "I am hungry." Simply say, "I see that the body is hungry." And that is the truth. You are the watcher. Hunger happens to the body. Consciousness can never experience hunger. Food enters only the body. Only the body requires blood and flesh. It is the body that gets tired. Consciousness never tires. Consciousness is a lamp that burns without a wick and without oil. No food, no fuel is needed there. Nor has it ever been sought. The body requires fuel. It requires food and water. The body is a mechanism. The soul is not a machine. When the body is hungry, feed it. Just remember: "The body is hungry, and I am observing it." When thirsty, give it water. It is essential. A machine must be maintained. Only a madman would say, "I am not the body, so I won't give it water." If you sit in a car and refuse to fill it with petrol, what will you do? Then get out of the car! It won't run anymore. If you just sit there, trying to start it, insisting "No petrol for you"—it is enough to simply not identify with the car. Remain the master. Fulfill the car's needs. The body's needs must be met; it is a vehicle. It must be utilized, and its utility is immense. Because it is the ladder that takes you down into sorrow, and the very same ladder that lifts you into bliss. The body is just a ladder. And the unique beauty of a ladder is that one end rests on the earth, while the other reaches into the sky. You can use it to climb down, or use it to climb up. Through the body itself, you descended into hell; through the body, you will ascend to heaven. Through the body alone, you can achieve liberation. It is a medium. You must take good care of it and fulfill its needs. However, there is no reason to become identified with the medium. Let the instrument remain an instrument. You write with a fountain pen, but you are not the fountain pen. You walk with your legs, but you are not your legs. The body is an instrument; take care of it. It's precious, do not ruin it. There are two types of people who ruin it: one ruins it through excessive indulgence, and the other ruins it through extreme renunciation. Both are its enemies, and both are foolish. One ruins

it in brothels, another ruins it by overeating, while the one at the opposite extreme ruins it through endless fasting. Either you fill it with so much petrol that there is no room left inside to sit, or you put no petrol in at all. You constantly live in these two extremes. Give it only what it needs. You have to take care of the servant too. You must look after it. But taking care of a servant doesn't make the servant the master.

When the intellect is tamed, the True Self is realized, and as your intellect comes under control, as you grow more grounded in witnessing, you will find that your inner essence, your true being, your very soul, your authentic existence, has begun to manifest. A corrupted intellect creates the worldly trap; a mastered intellect reveals the soul. If the intellect is master, it's the world; if slave, it is the Divine. The intellect is a ladder. Climbing down it is not mandatory; you can also climb up. But only the master can climb upward. The slave keeps falling down, deeper and deeper. And being enslaved to the intellect is truly dangerous, because it is not servitude to one. The intellect is a crowd. One moment it tells you to get angry; the next, to repent. One thought says, "Indulge in the world." Another says, "Go and seek liberation." One thought tells you to amass wealth, even if it requires stealing. Another thought says, "That is a sin." There are endless such thoughts. And the sum total of these endless thoughts is the intellect. If the intellect were just a single thought, life could still have peace. But it isn't a single thought. It is a noisy crowd; it is a marketplace.

The state of the intellect is just like a school. When class is in session and the teacher is present, the children study quietly. The moment the teacher steps out, utter chaos and fighting break out. Books are thrown around, slates are smashed, tables are overturned. Random things are scribbled on the blackboard, and profanities are shouted. These children behave this way because they have no master present; no one is watching them. The moment the teacher walks back into the room— instant silence. Books return to their places, the students lower their eyes and get back to their work. The moment your inner mastery awakens, the intellect falls right into line. But the moment your mastery is lost, the intellect becomes sheer chaos and anarchy. And relying on this anarchy to guide you is impossible, because it leads nowhere. There isn't just one voice here; there are infinite conflicting voices. Mahavira said that man has a multi-faceted mind. He does not have a single mind. And this insight of Mahavira is fully supported by modern psychology. Modern psychology states that human beings are polypsychic. You don't have one mind; you have endless minds inside you. It’s like having one servant and infinite masters, all giving orders simultaneously. The servant will go mad! Whom should he obey? Whom should he ignore? That is exactly how you have been driven mad. Seek the One, so the teacher returns to the classroom. Seek the One, so the many unruly slaves settle quietly back into their places. When there is one master, your life finds direction, truth is realized, and you truly know yourself. And through this realization of truth, natural freedom unfolds. As long as you make the intellect your master, you will remain enslaved. The moment the essence is realized, natural freedom will unfold.

It is important to understand what this natural freedom is. Why call it "natural" instead of just freedom? It is a bit subtle. There are two kinds of freedom. One is a freedom that stands in reaction against something. When freedom is merely a reaction, it becomes sheer recklessness. It is not genuine freedom. Then you simply start acting in reverse. For example, the intellect tells you to get angry. If you decide to do the exact opposite—the intellect says get angry, and you say, "I won't be angry, I will forgive instead." The intellect says, "Kill him." And you say, "I won't kill him. I'll offer my own neck to him so he can strike me down." Whatever the intellect dictates, you do the reverse. This is what monks generally do. The intellect says, "Go seek a woman." Monks flee toward the forest. The intellect says, "Go seek wealth." Monks refuse to touch money. If it touches them, they react as if bitten by a snake or scorpion. The intellect says, "Relax and rest." The monk stands under the hot sun. He sleeps on a bed of thorns. This is not genuine freedom. Because you are still obeying the very entity you are rebelling against. It remains your master. Understand this well. It is a bit complex, because your struggle continues. Once you become the master, the fight ends. A slave is just a slave. Why fight with him? Suppose you have a slave who starts acting like the master. He tells you to sit down, and you sit. He tells you to stand up, and you stand. Then you decide you will do the exact opposite of what this slave says. Even then, he remains your master! When he tells you to sit, you deliberately stand. You aren't agreeing with him, yet you are still being governed by him, because he is the one dictating your reactions. And if that slave gets a little clever, whenever he wants you to sit down, he will command you to stand! And you will sit down! You cannot escape it.

Mullah Nasruddin's son was causing a lot of trouble. Nasruddin kept telling him to sit quietly, so he made even more noise. When told to go out, he would come inside. Eventually, Nasruddin grew frustrated. There were guests over, and children act up even more in front of guests, because in front of guests, it becomes a question of proving who the real master is—the father or the son. That is why children usually don't make a racket; they mind their own business. But the moment a guest arrives, the trouble begins, because it becomes a clash of egos, a power struggle over who is in charge. Seeing the guests, the child acted up even more. Finally, Mullah Nasruddin said, "Listen, do whatever you please! Now let me see how you manage to disobey my command." "Do whatever you feel like doing. Let me see how you manage to disobey my orders now." The child must have certainly been in a fix! If you merely go against the mind, natural freedom will not unfold. What unfolds is a kind of freedom that isn't freedom at all; it's rebellion. It is revolt. But we remain tied to whatever we rebel against. We remain connected to whatever we fight against. We are still not the master. The cue still comes from the mind. We may do the opposite, but the cue still originates there. So you may practice celibacy, but it makes no difference. Your celibacy is merely a rebellion; it is not natural. The mind demanded lust, and you declared war on it. This is a fight. And who fights with a slave? Anyone who fights with a slave still treats that slave as the master. A fight happens between equals. How can you fight a slave? That is why your monks, even if they live in opposition to you, are no different from you. Your monks may be heading in the reverse direction, but as far as being mastered by the mind goes, there isn't the slightest difference.

Natural freedom is a completely different matter. It means recognizing: "I am the master." Then, obeying or disobeying the mind is no longer the question. Siding with the mind or going against it is no longer the issue. Now, I give commands to the mind. I no longer take orders. There are two ways to take orders: to obey, or to do the reverse. Both are simply ways of submitting to orders. When the intellect becomes the master, its mastery can take two forms: negative and positive. You can choose to be a householder, or choose to be a monk. But it makes no real difference. That is why your monks are just the inverted form of householders, standing on their heads. No difference! In fact, they suffer more than householders, because standing on your feet is much easier than standing on your head! Otherwise, nature would have designed you to walk on your head. Whatever you are doing, they do the exact opposite. You are accumulating wealth; they are renouncing it. You seek security for the body; they leave it unprotected. You make comfortable beds for the body; they gather thorns and pebbles. Just the exact opposite of you. You savor the taste of food; they observe fasts and go on hunger strikes. You cover yourselves in fine clothes; they go naked. This is not natural freedom. This is a state of tension; there is no naturalness in it. Therefore, the aphorism says: when the intellect is tamed, the True Self is realized. Realizing the essence effortlessly gives rise to natural freedom. Only then are you truly free. Then you no longer look to the mind to see what it is saying, what you should or shouldn't do. You simply stop looking at the mind altogether. Then your actions become spontaneous. Then you are truly liberated from the mind. You become the sole decision-maker, and the mind follows behind you. But this happens only when you become the master. And mastery happens only when you become a witness. Do not fight the mind; otherwise, natural freedom will never unfold. The moment you fight, you treat the mind as your equal. Whoever you fight with, you grant equal standing. It was once a friend, now an enemy, but you still stand as equals. A master is never an equal. The master is in the sky; the servant is on the ground. Whoever you fight against, you grant equal standing to. Once a friend, now an enemy—yet you both stand as equals. A master is never an equal. The master is in the sky; the servant is on the ground. When mastery arrives, freedom arrives. That natural, spontaneous freedom is unique.

I have heard an anecdote. A Muslim mystic named Bayazid went on a pilgrimage to Hajj. He had resolved to undertake a forty-day fast. Five days of fasting passed, and they reached a village. Some 100 disciples were with Bayazid. He was a highly revered, enlightened master. His fame reached far and wide. As they entered the village, people came and told him, "Bayazid, one of your devotees has gone above and beyond. He is a destitute man owning nothing but a small hut. He sold his hut. He sold his cattle. He sold everything he owned to host a welcome feast for the entire village today!" Now, Bayazid was fasting, and he had to keep it for 40 days. The disciples were also fasting for 40 days. Bayazid felt no tension at all. The disciples, however, became deeply stressed. They knew they weren't supposed to eat. When they arrived, Bayazid sat down at the plate! The disciples grew extremely restless. Seeing the master sit, they sat down too, but filled with guilt. And they wondered: "Has Bayazid forgotten? Did he lose his awareness so quickly? Or did he just get tempted by delicious food? He should have declined! We are on a 40-day fast, and we are supposed to eat only after reaching our Hajj destination! What kind of vow is this? Taken and broken in five days! But how could anyone speak up in front of the master? They ate, but with immense guilt. They ate in deep distress, and looking at Bayazid, they were utterly bewildered. He was savoring the meal with utter delight. No restlessness at all. No discomfort. That night, when everyone left, the disciples confronted the master. They said, "This is outrageous! We couldn't refuse the food, and because you ate, we had to follow suit." Bayazid asked, "Why are you so troubled? He prepared it with such love that breaking the fast was the only right thing to do. Crushing his love would have caused far greater harm. Breaking the fast caused no real harm. We will simply fast for another five days. Instead of 40 days, we'll make it 45. Had his love been shattered, we could have never mended it. His heart would be wounded beyond any repair. We just have to fast, right? Forget these five days. We will do 40 days again." The difference— the disciples' freedom is not natural. Their agony is: "We ended up listening to the mind! The mind wanted us to eat, while we were fighting it. We obeyed the mind, so we remain enslaved." Bayazid is the master. It is entirely in his hands whether to fast or break it. There's no rebellion against the mind. No hostility toward it. Nor is it submission. He says, "I am the master. If I choose to fast, I fast. If not, I won't. The decision is solely mine." Both were fasting. Yet there is a revolutionary, fundamental difference between the two. Bayazid's freedom is natural. He can stay in a palace with total unconcern. He can stay in a hut with total unconcern. But if Bayazid's disciples had to stay in a palace, they would agonize over indulging in luxury. The ego clings. Sometimes it clings to a hut, but the clinging itself never vanishes. Bayazid can go either way. His freedom is natural. Nothing holds him back. The decision belongs entirely to his soul. The soul is the master. Natural freedom unfolds only when the essence is realized. Until then, all forms of freedom are illusory.

Because of his liberated nature, he can step outside of himself, and while being outside, he can simultaneously remain centered within. This is a priceless aphorism. "Because of his liberated nature, he can step outside of himself." Kabir continued weaving cloth; he remained a weaver. His disciples often objected: "It doesn't befit you to weave cloth anymore, or go to the market to sell it. You are not a householder!" Kabir would laugh and say, "It is all His play. The inside and the outside are one." This is beyond our comprehension, because we are trapped in the outside. We cling to it so tightly that we cannot see how inside and outside are one. Jain mystics have declared: "The world and liberation are one." This panics us. How is that possible? How can it be? The world traps us; we suffer in it. Liberation is its exact opposite—where we are free, peaceful, joyful, and blissful. Where sorrow does not exist. For us, liberation must stand in strict opposition to the world. But when a person is truly liberated, nothing in existence remains an opposite. All dualities dissolve. When a person becomes free, the gap between inside and outside vanishes. Because that entire gap is just a wall of ego. What is inside or outside? The ego stands right between them, creating the divide. Suppose we take an earthen pot and submerge it in a river, filling it with water. We say, "This is water inside the pot, and outside is the river." But what separates them? Merely a wall of clay. If that earthen wall breaks, what is inside? What is outside? What is outside is inside, and what is inside is outside. That is why Kabir says, "My everyday living is my worship. Moving about is my prayer." Kabir no longer goes to the temple, because there's no gap between the shop and the temple. Kabir no longer flees the market for the Himalayas, for there is no gap between market and mountain. He no longer runs away from his home, because the gap between "mine" and "other" has vanished. Where could you even run to? The moment the ego falls, all divisions fall. All boundaries disappear. Then nothing is outside, nothing is inside. Neither matter nor the Divine. Both become one. That is non-duality— where everything becomes one, and all boundaries dissolve entirely. But this happens only when natural freedom blossoms in life. Such a person, by virtue of his liberated nature, can step outside of himself, and while active outside, remain centered within. Nothing hinders him. If he lives in a palace, he remains a true renunciate. If he stands as a mendicant on the street, he is still in a palace. Even if sitting on piles of millions, he remains utterly non-possessive. And if he owns nothing, no one is richer than him, because the whole world belongs to him. Yet we fail to recognize him, being familiar with only one fragment—the water inside the pot. We think the outside is entirely separate from the inside. What is hidden inside you is the exact same essence that pervades the outside. The sky inside you is the exact same sky outside. And your body is nothing more than a clay pot, creating a temporary illusion of separation. The world and renunciation are not two. They appear as two because you only know one—the world—and know nothing of renunciation. Hence, you project your idea of renunciation based entirely on your worldly experience. Your concept of renunciation is a direct byproduct of the world. So you call someone a renunciate only when they are your exact opposite. You say, "Look, what a great renunciate! Walking barefoot. Living naked. Standing in the scorching sun. Enduring the rain. Sleeping on raw grass. What a sage!" Your very concept of renunciation stems from your worldly mindset. For you, King Janaka could never be a sage. How could he? Living in a royal palace! For you, Lord Krishna could never be a sage. How could he? Wearing a peacock crown, playing his flute! No, according to you, they could never be true renunciates. But when the enslavement of your intellect ends, and your inner essence is liberated, only then will you realize that liberation is everywhere. A marketplace is no obstacle to it. Liberation is everywhere. A royal empire is no obstacle. Because liberation is your own internal state of being. Once free, the worldly trap dissolves entirely. Inside and outside become one. Worship and business become identical. Then a person embraces life exactly as it is. There is no need to make the slightest distinction anymore. That is why even butchers have attained ultimate enlightenment. It has happened that fully immersed householders attained supreme enlightenment. And it also happens that an ascetic who renounced everything keeps wandering, never attaining that ultimate realization. This aphorism is profound: "By virtue of his liberated nature, he can step outside of himself. And while active outside, remain centered within." Now, he is truly free. Now, he cannot be defined. If you try to bind him to a definition, you will fail to recognize him. He is indefinable. He has no fixed traits. It is impossible to predict where you will find him. He could be anywhere.

Once, right before the monsoon season, a monk of Lord Buddha entered a village. And a courtesan fell deeply in love with him. The monk was undeniably handsome. Moreover, a monk possesses a unique beauty that an ordinary man can never have. When someone renounces everything, a divine radiance begins to manifest within them. Discarding the meaningless lets the flowers of profound truth bloom inside. A majestic grace arises in their life, rarely seen otherwise. arises. Seeing that dancing, blissful monk, if that courtesan was captivated by him, it was only natural. The courtesan was exceptionally beautiful. Emperors used to knock at her door. Not everyone even got the chance to meet her. It cost a fortune to spend even a single moment with her. She ran out onto the street to the monk herself and said, "Please accept my invitation for the rainy retreat. Please stay at my house during this season." The monk said, "I will ask my master, and do as he commands." The monk said neither yes nor no; he simply said, "I will ask my master." The next morning, he asked Buddha, "I have received an invitation from a courtesan. What should I do?" Buddha replied, "If she wasn't afraid of you, why should you be afraid of her? Is my sannyasin so weak that he fears a courtesan? Go, you were invited for the rainy retreat. Stay there." The rest of the monks grew deeply restless. Because many monks had seen that courtesan while passing by. She was lovely. Desire had arisen in many of their minds too. Many secretly wished that they had been the ones invited. One monk stood up and said, "This is not appropriate at all. A monk staying at a courtesan's house is wrong. There is a real danger of him falling from grace." Buddha said, "If you had received the invitation, I would not have granted you permission. There is danger of you falling from grace, because you still divide the inside and the outside. But the one I am sending, I send knowingly; whether he is outside or inside makes no difference to him." Still, the monks were unconvinced. They said, "You are making a mistake. This will set a bad precedent. The boundaries of discipline will be broken." Buddha said, "Just wait. Let the rainy retreat pass, then we shall see." Every single day, the monks brought rumors that he had fallen. Someone would report, "We saw him watching a dance performance there at night, sitting right in the audience." Another would say, "He was sitting on a velvet cushion." Someone else claimed he had changed his robes. Everyone brought different tales and gossip. Someone even said, "We saw them embracing." Buddha would reply, "Let the rainy retreat pass. What's the rush? Why bring these rumors? What is your real concern? You are not the ones falling from grace. Whoever is falling will return right here after the rainy season."

When the retreat ended, the monk returned. And the courtesan followed behind him. She said to Buddha, "Please initiate me as a nun. The monk has won, and I have lost. I tried every temptation, and he never resisted any of them. Even when I embraced him, he did not pull away. When I offered him a velvet cushion, he didn't say, 'I am a monk, how can I sit on velvet?' When I served him the most exquisite, delicious foods, he never said, 'I cannot eat this, lest it awaken desire in me.' I tempted him in every way, but he never refused. Whatever happened, he remained undisturbed, as if nothing was happening at all. It shook me to my core. The blissful state he enjoys— where inside and outside have vanished— a bliss that nothing can ever disturb; I yearn for that very same bliss!" Buddha said to the monks, "Look! When someone's inside and outside merge, even a courtesan living near them becomes a renunciate. Had you gone to the courtesan, you would have become her shadow. A goodness that fears evil is of no real value at all. The monk fears the unholy. The true sage never fears the unholy. The true sage has transcended both entirely. A true sage is one whom no situation can ever alter. While active outside, he remains within. Even while living in the world, the world never enters inside him." Buddha said: "The supreme state of sannyas is when you walk through the river, yet the water does not touch your feet. If you fear crossing the river, that is not the ultimate state. That is merely a state of fear."

Remember these three maxims: First, break the mind's mastery. It breaks through witnessing, by creating a distance. Second, establish your self-mastery. But not by opposing the mind. Freedom arrives by rising above it. If it comes through opposition, it is false. That freedom brings tension and distress; it won't bring peace. It won't be natural. It comes by rising above, by witnessing—not by fighting. There is no place for a warrior in true religion. True spirituality is about rising above. Not fighting. Because you remain stuck at the level of whatever you fight against. Do not turn the mind into an enemy. You must transcend the mind and go beyond it. And the key to transcending is witnessing. The moment you rise above, spontaneous, natural freedom will unfold. Liberation will happen. And that liberation stands in opposition to nothing. In such freedom, you reach a state where, even when active outside, you remain centered within. It makes no difference, for the gap between inside and outside has vanished. The world and liberation are one. All dualities dissolve. All conflicts disappear. A state of absolute harmony and non-duality. That is all for today.